


another one who believes, another one to deceive

by bokutoma



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Amorality, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, FUCK oriana tho, Murder Family, THIS IS VERY DIFFERENT THAN WHAT I NORMALLY WRITE, god moira is the antithesis of my usual wardens, moira is kind of a softie but alistair never gets to see it, pro chantry, pro templar, rip bryce, rip dairren, rip eleanor, rip gilmore, rip oren, that's why she doesn't get a tag, wynne gets merced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutoma/pseuds/bokutoma
Summary: "and, if she had survived this long, moira thought the maker must have a sense of morals like hers.a wicked god indeed."





	1. prologue

Moira Cousland was deliciously tired upon awakening, each muscle in her body stretching with delicious protest. The day was still dark outside the stone walls of the castle her family had held for  generations, and the soldiers had not yet begun to train.

It was a good thing, of course, since she would be among them.

She had been up late last night, pursuing Ser Gilmore as was her habit. It was never anything too serious - she did not take kindly to outright rejection, after all - but she enjoyed pushing his buttons and watching him blush like a boy, and one day, she was certain, he would give up his charade of decency and fall into bed with her like every other self-respecting knight she had pursued.

Last night, they had drank their fill of Amaranthine wine, brought by Arl Howe when he had arrived the evening prior. Ser Gilmore had been under the illusion that he could out-drink her, a notion she was happy to disabuse him of. He had slipped up, tongue loosened by sweet alcohol, and called her by name, told her she beautiful, and she might have made progress right then and there were it not for Rendon Howe himself, who had come in search of drink per her father's permission and recommendation.

"No servant would suffice to match my tastes," he had said, making full use of the particular snobbish tone that Moira had always thought better pulled off by an exceedingly handsome rogue, of which he was neither. "I simply had to peruse your famous cellar myself."

He had addressed her politely - and Ser Gilmore not at all - and thoroughly killed the mood. More than a little drunk, she had pulled Fergus from his rooms to complain again; he had laughed in her face, then dutifully offered her some of his secret stash of Antivan sweets, plucked from Oriana when she wasn't looking.

She had taken no one to bed - let it  _never_ be said that Moira Cousland didn't have standards - and so she woke rather more easily than usual, no hairy limbs to disentangle from her own, no women to chase out before they demanded affection she would not give.

There was just Fleamon, her dog (who had been named after an unfortunate encounter with the Arl of Redcliffe), and the warmth of his oversized body.

Her father was set to leave for Ostagar tonight, and though she loathed not being a part of the action or the glory, she would enjoy having the run of the place. Her mother's word may have been law, but Moira had never particularly been one for rules. 

After all, the world revolved around her, and that was the way she liked it.


	2. give me just what i need

To say that Moira Cousland was less than enthused about the dawning of this day would be both a massive understatement and a gross misunderstanding. It wasn't that she didn't adore the idea of being the de facto teyrna, especially considering her mother let her get away with an awful lot simply by virtue of her being a woman, but the thought of the glory Father and Fergus would attain while she sat at home like a miserable housewife burned her to her core.

Her only consolation was that Ser Gilmore would not be marching either. Bryce Cousland had informed him over a fortnight ago that he would be remaining in Highever with his wife and daughter, and Gilmore had looked no more pleased about the dismissal than she had been.

Ah, well, she would enjoy beating down the infantry while she could.

The castle was not nearly as drafty as it should have been after a thousand years of wear, but the chill Highever air did bite into her skin where it was exposed to the air. She was feeling daring that day, unapologetically proud, and so she had worn her leathers; still of good quality, of course, but it was a mockery, a taunt, and each opponent would know it.

"Good morning, my lady!" Ser Gilmore called from across the way as she exited her family's wing. If she was seeing him correctly, he had a red blush to his cheeks. "How do you fare?"

"A fair bit better than you, I'd wager," she teased. "Are you coming down with a fever? You're looking rather flushed."

"You're as cruel and tyrannical as ever, I see." His tone was flippant, and she could not help but laugh.

"You love it."

He turned even redder and did not deny it; victory was so close she could taste it.

Fergus would have found a joke in that, she was certain.

No helm would be needed for today's practice; the recruits were being drilled doubly in an attempt to prepare them for Ostagar, and so there was no reason to worry about stray arrows or errant blades.

She tied back the front of her hair to keep it out of her face in her usual manner. Moira had inherited the same chestnut locks Fergus had, but she had received the unruly waves that plagued him as well, and strands attempted to defy the insistent press of her hands.

"Are you going to provide me with a challenge today, Ser Gilmore?" 

The slanted look he gave her from the corner of his eyes nearly sent her into a fit of giggles. "Wasn't it just yesterday that I knocked you on your ass,  _my lady_?" 

She grinned, wide and feral. "I find myself  _frustrated_ by Howe's eternally boring presence, however, and so I seem inclined to wrestle you to the ground and take my victory."

A passing soldier couldn't contain his snort of laughter, and Moira took that as proof of her victory.

"My, but you are...rather saucy today, my lady," Ser Gilmore choked out, half mortified, half amused.

"All a part of my charm."

"Indeed!" called another knight in the small group that now congregated about the training grounds. Normally, he would not have dared; normally, she would have flayed him for the insolence. There was a certain camaraderie with blades in hand, though, and she was celebrated for having bedded many winsome partners just as Fergus had been, once upon a time.

Anyone who reacted oppositely had felt the bite of her blade for real.

* * *

Sparring with Ser Gilmore was comforting, in a way. He was familiar, his rhythms steady as his moves changed, but his style varied more often than not, and he never held back. He was probably the only knight that could best her with any regularity now.

It was wonderful to be thrashed about sometimes.

Their swords danced together, flashing against the cool morning light. Arl Howe was there, watching with a look of deep distaste; when next she drove Gilmore in that direction, he was gone.

Oren had escaped from his mother's overprotective clutches, and a kind young soldier had offered to spar with him, gasping dramatically when the boy "struck" him with his faux blade and toppling to the ground, defeated.

She would have to thank him later.

Oriana was nice enough, she supposed; she was not the worst Fergus had bedded, but her insistence on reminding everyone in the vicinity that  _Antiva_ would not suffer the quirks of her family had put her squarely on Moira's bad side, not to mention her apparent dislike for honesty and straightforwardness. For Fergus, she tried, but the Maker above knew how she loathed the bitch.

"Distracted, Lady Moira?" Ser Gilmore called, and she only narrowly avoided the swing of his blade. "Lord Oren's skills might already best yours."

"As if!" she laughed, but he had unfocused her sufficiently, and he pressed her to the ground, sword to her throat.

"Do you yield, my lady?" he asked, a teasing smile stretched across his handsome face.

"To you?" She batted her lashes coyly. "Always."

He sputtered, and she fell back with a peal of laughter.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"More like a vixen." He offered his hand as he sheathed his sword. "Are we retiring for the day?"

"I should think so. Perhaps we could resume our duel later tonight?"

And, despite his earlier protests, he smiled. "Maybe someday soon, my lady. Maybe someday soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: @chellick // @bokutoma
> 
> twitter: @deracinatin


	3. long tongue liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maker, she missed the days when the arrival of the howes meant she would get to see one she actually liked
> 
> some good old rendon howe hate

There were fewer people that Moira Cousland hated seeing more than Arl Rendon Howe. He was ugly, well past his prime, and depraved in all the wrong ways, should the rumors be believed; why her father kept counsel with him was beyond her.

Still, that was the man that awaited her in the grand halls of the entrance to the Cousland family home, the man that looked her up and down just out of sight of her father, the man who sneered as though her existence offended him.

 _Please._ As though he could access or afford anyone near her quality.

"My children are more than eager to ride to Ostagar, Rendon," her father was saying as she flounced through the open doors. "Especially the one who will stay behind."

"It's in poor taste to talk about a lady when she isn't there, Father."

He turned to look at her, warm joy on his face. "Ah, there you are, pup. Were you out this morning?"

"Of course."

"It is a wonder that she had any time at all to learn the arts of a noblewoman," Howe cut in, his tone obsequious enough to mask his distaste to all but those who knew it would be there.

Much as she wanted to bite back, however, she painted on a bashful smile. "I would hardly have the skills at all were it not for dear Delilah keeping me company when our brothers would make trouble. She was about the only person who could get me to sit still long enough to practice, much as Nan did try. How is she?"

"Well enough," he replied, scowling when it was clear she hadn't fallen for his bait. "Thomas sends his regards, by the way."

"Does he now?" It was true that Thomas had fancied her a couple years back, but he had inherited too much of his father's face and personality for her to even bother using him. She had standards to maintain, after all. "How old is he now...twenty?"

It was not wholly unusual for a spouse in a noble match to be a fair bit older; however, it tended to be the man, to aid childbearing and deter wandering eyes. Besides, even a man her age would have trouble keeping up with her machinations. A boy four years her junior would be squashed under her heel immediately. It was obviously a scheme.

"I have no doubts that Thomas is a fine man," her father began, and she held her tongue in favor of watching him work. "Were my children's personalities reversed, I would bless it immediately. Still, I promised them both love matches, and with Fergus having tied the knot, I'm in no hurry to send off my daughter."

"Of course," Howe lied, smooth and oily as the adder a courtier had brought Fergus from the Korcari Wilds years ago. "Just fulfilling a request from my son. You must remember how tiresome it can get."

"Certainly," Bryce agreed, though Moira knew for a fact that Fergus had hardly ever had to do anything more than throw a few words to a woman in order to bed her. She would deem the Howe men hopeless, but she had fond memories of the oldest, who had been close with Fergus. Nathaniel had been just as raunchy as her brother, and without relations to stay his tongue, he had indulged her in many a tale of his conquests.

Maker, she missed the days when the arrival of the Howes meant she would get to see one she actually liked.

"We missed your men at this morning's practice, Arl Howe," she said, returning to the conversation at hand. "Were they delayed?"

"Yes, unfortunately. The levies could not be my first priority these last months, and there were unusually high tides. They will be here by morning, though, so do not fret, my lady."

"That reminds me-" Bryce was interrupted by the opening of the doors. "Ah, Duncan! It's good to see you after the ride you had last night, my friend. You seem much refreshed."

"That is thanks to your excellent hosting, my lord," the strange man replied. He seemed foreign; his skin was markedly darker than most native Fereldens, and a bright gold earring flashed in his ear.  _Rivaini,_ she thought, but she couldn't be entirely sure. Though his voice held that musical lilt, it also carried the roughness of Highever stone. He was handsome, though he had to be nearer her father's age than her own, and there was an aura of power about him that she, who had spent her entire life in the company of nobles, had never encountered before. "I have never been more comfortable than when I visit your home."

"You're too kind." Her father gestured toward her. "Come here, pup. Meet Duncan. He is a Grey Warden, and will be scouting for recruits for some time before returning to Ostagar."

"Lady Moira Cousland," she replied, dipping into as graceful a curtsy as she could manage while in armor. "It's quite the honor to meet you. May I ask whether you have anyone in mind?"

"There is a Ser Gilmore that I have heard excellent things about," he said, and she had only a moment to feel a stab of possessive annoyance before he continued. "If I may be so bold, you would also make a stellar recruit, my lady."

Her face flushed at the praise, something it hadn't done in years, but her father stepped forward to intervene.

"You may  _not_ ," he said in the sharpest voice she'd heard from him in years. The look on Bryce Cousland's face befit the fearsome teyrn he had once been, and he eyed the man he had just called friend with suspicion. "Great honor though it would be, I do not have so many children that I would see one carted off."

"Isn't that what marriage is?" she piped in.

"Pup," he warned, and she would press her luck no further.

"Be that as it may, we do still have business to discuss," Howe interjected.

"Of course, old friend. Pup, run along and tell Fergus that he must set off this evening if any of us are to make it to Ostagar in time. While we are gone, I trust you will attend to Duncan's needs well, including his search for new recruits."

"Of course, Father."

"I  _also_ trust you will not count yourself among them."

"And leave Mother's iron fist unchecked? Never."

Her father's face relaxed into a reluctant smile. "Ah, pup, you are as quick-witted as ever."

"Feel free to tell your war stories with Arl Howe, Father. I just have a few questions for Duncan, and then I'll see to Fergus."

"I have the most curious feeling that I am being led like a lamb to the slaughter," Duncan muttered under his breath as she guided them apart from the two noblemen. Whether he meant for her to hear or not, she didn't know, but she laughed anyway.

"Perhaps this is because I intimidate you?" She said it mostly in jest; she had never tried to intimidate a Grey Warden before, and so would not have known where to start.

"Ha! Formidable though you may be, I would be a poor Warden indeed if I cowered in the face of a foe, no matter what their resources."

"Mm."

"That, of course, would also mean that it would be unwise to underestimate that same foe. Many an upper hand is lost that way, both figuratively and, I suspect, literally."

Moira laughed again, feeling like a giggling child. "So long as we understand each other."

"Of course, my lady. Now, what were the questions you had for me?"

"Do you think I could take whatever recruitment test you have structured?" At Duncan's faintly alarmed look, she waved him off. "I don't intend to join, much as the idea appeals to me. I would never place you on the bad side of my father. I just want to see if I  _could_ make it, were circumstances in my favor."

"I'm afraid that would still be too much to ask, my lady. Your father would certainly hear of it, and would have my head before either of us could explain."

"Then perhaps we could do it at night?" she asked, her eyes widening into perfect innocence. "My rooms are free, if you are still afraid of spies."

Duncan coughed into a closed fist, though she hadn't quite succeeded in making him blush. "I'm afraid that would do more harm to your reputation than would be worth it, my lady."

Bah! As if she didn't already have one. Annoyed, she took her leave with a polite, if cold curtsy and strode out the door.

Grey Wardens were such  _bores._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: @bokutoma // @chellick
> 
> twitter: @deracinatin


End file.
